


Demon-Haunted World

by BlackRose



Category: Grimm
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-17 17:13:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackRose/pseuds/BlackRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He vanished one night, stolen away for a whole year. Nick searched for him, but found no trace. When he turns up again, starving, sick and scared to death, Monroe doesn't even seem to recall who Nick is. What happened to him, and was his disapearance merely a tip of something larger and more terrible than Nick knows?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I only turned my back for an instant. My fellow cops had arrived to sweep the barn, and they needed a firsthand statement from me as to what had happened, roughly how many persons were involved, were drugs involved, stuff like that. I gave them the briefest rundown possible, and then I went back to check on Monroe, because I knew he still needed medical attention from earlier. Only he was gone. No trace of him, just a puddle of blood from an 'unknown source'. I took Hank and searched the perimeter--fresh tire tracks and long dragmarks in the mud were all we found. Someone took him, but he didn't go quietly. I duly reported a possible civilan abduction, gave a general description as though I didn't know him. Then I went home and called his cell and house several times. 

Needless to say, I never got an answer. I went over the next morning, hoping against hope to find him brewing coffee for us to share, half-heartedly grumbling about how I was interrupting his yoga. No such luck. His car was in the driveway, the house was dark and my knocks were never answered. Not that morning, or any other. Nothing changed--the little yellow Volkswagon remained in its spot, my calls were never returned, the door never opened, as weeks rolled into months. Christmas nearly broke my heart--wherever he was, did he get to celebrate his favorite holiday? That year I went and hung up colored lights and tinsel on the porch for him, just in case. I know it was hard on Rosalee--they were so close; worry had to be eating her up. All I could do was ask around, press my contacts in the wesen community for whatever (scant) information they could find, try to reassure her that the case was still open and being looked into, and be there for her just to chat sometimes, so she wouldn't be too lonely. (I know aside from Monroe she didn't have many other friends.)

By the time spring had rolled into fall, life had moved on, and I'd very nearly stopped missing him (or so I told myself.) Then one rainy night I was returning home late, having been caught up interrogating a suspect. I was contemplating ordering in for Chinese, when my headlights caught a crumpled form cowering on my porch. Instantly my neck prickled, and as I approached the figure I had my gun in hand. 

"Who's there?!? Hands where I can see them!," I barked, moving cautiously towards this possible intruder. Were they trying to break in? Robbery, perhaps? Or maybe they were a vagrant, seeking shelter from the storm. The person certainly looked in sorry shape the closer I came--he was dressed in filthy rags, which seemed to be stained with blood and things I preferred not to contemplate. His hair was matted and wild, almost bushy, his beard the same. As he looked up at me, blinking and terrified. My heart flipped over as those big brown eyes met mine, half-mad with terror. 

"MONROE?!?"


	2. Chapter 2

His eyes widened in shock, though whatever reply he tried to make was lost in a violent coughing spasm. I instinctively went to help him, try to hold him up, but he shuddered almost convulsively and shied away from my touch. 

"Who....you?," he murmured, wiping what had to be blood from his lips. 

"Monroe, it's me, Nick! Are you alri--"

"How do you...know my name?"

God, up close he looked so much worse than I'd feared! He'd lost weight--a lot of it. While he'd never exactly been fat he'd always had a sturdy, almost stocky build. Not so now; his face seemed to have collapsed into a death-camp mask, all sharp planes. Bruises were everywhere, nearly swelling his right eye shut and ringing his throat like a livid collar. Ligature marks--had he been choked? Or simply restrained? I could nearly count his ribs as I drew his shuddering form close to me, trying to share with him whatever warmth I could--though I could feel through my jacket that he was letting off a lot of heat himself. Too much. Was that why he'd been let go? He was too sick for whatever twisted uses his captors had for him? 

Whatever the case, he fought me--hard. For a moment I thought he'd woge, but then his eyes faded back to brown, and something like a sob shook him. 

"Please," he muttered, "please, Grimm, just..."

So he could tell I was a Grimm, but didn't remember who I was? 

"Hey, easy. It's all right. I'm not going to hurt you. We're friends, you and me. Just last year we were having coffee together every other morning. My name is Nick. Do you remember?"

I kept my voice low and soothing, the way Juliette taught me. It was an old trick vets use to calm frightened animals brought in for procedures, and one I had used to talk down a suspect or two in the past. It seemed to work now; though he shook his head in response to my question, Monroe let me scoop him up and bring him inside. It was so easy to do now, that it twisted my guts. Had the bastards starved him, wherever they'd been keeping him?

"Are you hungry?"

Again a headshake, and a grunting cough.

"No...want, to sleep if..."

He looked around blearily, and his expression fell.

"No. It's okay. just...let me sit..."

"Monroe. You can sleep here if you want to. That's fine with me. I think you should have a shower first though; you'll sleep better."

He looked at me sharply as though I'd just offered him a trip to Disney World. 

"Really...okay?"

I smiled and nodded, setting him on the couch. 

"It's fine. I'll run it for you if need help. Wait here--I'll go get some towels."

I set a stack of them out, and some of Juliette's scented soaps that'd she'd left behind. Keen as his sense of smell was, he was bound to enjoy smelling good. Shampoo. A pair of my old sleep pants and a tshirt. My slippers would be too small for him, so socks would do. I considered leaving him a razor but in his mental state I was wary of that. I'd help him shave later, maybe see if he'd let me cut his hair.


	3. Chapter 3

As I'd expected, he took a long time in the shower. I couldn't grudge him that; God only knew how long it been since he'd been allowed to bathe in any capacity. I started to make coffee--for the warmth and familiar smell if nothing else--then changed my mind and instead brewed a pot of some herbal tea Rosalee had given me. It was supposed to promote peaceful, dreamless sleep. When it was ready I poured a mug and went to check on Monroe.

He was sitting on the floor of the shower, the soap nearly gone, frantically scrubbing and scraping at his forearms. I barely mananged to pull his hand away; he looked up at me with that same dull horror from earlier.

"It'll never come off, will it?"

I knew he didn't mean the suds. Not the bruises blooming all over his chest and face either--I could only imagine what he thought he was covered in, and it made my heart ache. 

"There's nothing else on you. You're clean now. Need some help getting dry?"

He coughed again, considering, then ruefully nodded.

"Can't get up..."

I patted him dry like a child, trying to go gently over the raw wounds and sores. What angered me the most was his back--dark furrows criss-crossed it like lines on a map to Hell. That rough shiny red patch on his right shoulder---that had to be a burn, maybe even a brand. I made a mental note to photograph it later and start asking around, see if any known human--or wesen--trafficking rings were active in Portland, and if they were did they brand their product?

Finally he was dressed in warm dry cotton, and that fact alone seemed to calm some of the wild fear in his eyes. Perhaps he'd decided that since I'd been kind to him so far, I couldn't possibly be as bad as he'd first thought. So I hoped, anyhow. He let me help him out of the shower, then followed me into the guest room, still looking anxious. I gestured to the bed.

"Get settled in; I'll be right back."

I went to get the tea, and was not surprised when I came back and he was still standing there rigidly, staring at the bed as though he'd never seen one before. A pained whimper rose out of his chest as I went to him.

"Not...allowed to..."

I set the steaming mug on the nightstand with an audible *clink*, which seemed to momentarily snap him out of it.

"Would you feel safer somewhere else?"

Such relief flooded his face that again my heart broke. Glancing around the room I tried to decide where I could move the mattress to that might feel better. My gaze fell on the closet--empty now that Juliette was gone and had taken all her things with her. The inside was clean, and it should be just large enough. With some blankets and pillows stashed inside, it could even be a decent nest. A sort of den. Some place he could be sure of a sturdy wall at his back and a door closed against God-knew-what. Pleased with the decision, I motioned for him to step back--he did, scrambling as if I'd swiped at him--and wrestled the unwieldy thing across the room and into its new home. Success! It just fit. And there were even a few extra quilts folded up on the top shelf! These I duly added to the coverings, then stepped back to survey my work. 

"What do you think? Will that be okay?"

The only answer was a soft gasping noise--I turned back to Monroe, to find tears coursing down his cheeks.


	4. Chapter 4

I froze. For the first time I was truly at a loss--it obviously wasn't me he was seeing, but was it safe to touch him and snap him out of it? Just because he'd stopped himself from woging earlier, didn't mean he was fully in control. Not in this condition. 

"Monroe!"

As before, his name seemed to bring him back to the here-and-now. Blinking at me, he slowly backed away from the closet, shaking his head and shuddering. It had to be more than just the fever making him shake like that. His expression was so stricken, yet at the same time so desperately ashamed, that it hurt me to see. 

"Can't...M'sorry," he whispered, his gaze dropping submissively to the floor, "it's...too much like the cages. I can't go....back in there. Not yet. Please...don't put me back in there!"

His words gave way to more broken sobs, and it was all I could do not to hug him. 

"It's all right Monroe; I won't. No one will make you go anywhere you don't want to. I thought you might feel safer in a place you could shut. But if you want...hmmm..."

Bright idea time!

"Monroe--where would *you* feel safer sleeping?"

Perhaps having choices would give him a sense of regaining some measure of control. It seemed to take a moment for the words to sink in, but once they did, his eyes began to dry and he started staring around the room with an almost worried frown. Like he was trying to decide what to say that wouldn't make me angry at him. How had his spirit been so thoroughly broken?

At last he settled on right inside the door. I retrieved the mattress and got the blankets rearranged--then when he settled in (on his side, I noticed, facing the door) I placed the mug in easy reach. It seemed to intrigue him--I know he could smell the strong herbal fragrance. 

"That's for you. A friend of mine---of ours, actually--gave me that; she says it can help you sleep. If nothing else, it's hot, and might feel good on your throat."

He'd been coughing more and more throughout the evening. I had resolved to call Rosalee first thing tomorrow, and see if she'd be willing to make a housecall. He said nothing, just stared at me for a long moment, eyes searching mine--feeling out the truth? Seeking traces of deception?--before he finally reached over and grasped the mug, inhaling the steam before taking a cautious sip. I'd added some rock sugar--some of the stuff he'd given me last year, ironicly enough--so it wasn't too bitter, and before long he'd finished the mug. The tea worked fast--in minutes he was curling back up, eyelids drooping. That he didn't object to my covering him up, spoke volumes about how much he still trusted me. 

"You'll be all right, " I whispered to him as I turned the light off and pulled the door partially shut--but still open enough to let the hall light in so he wouldn't wake up in the unfamiliar dark and be more afraid than he already was. 

Now all I could do was set my alarm, and pray that I wouldn't end up a liar.


	5. Chapter 5

While Monroe slept I sat awake, in a chair outside his door. Gun in hand, maglite at my feet, mug of coffee nearby, I was bound and determined that nothing would come to disturb him. Around three in the morning I went to refill my mug, only to hear thrashing sounds from the room that had me rushing inside.

Monroe was lying half-on and half-off the pallet, the blankets kicked off and half-twisted around his ankles. With these he was struggling franticly, his eyes glittering and wild. Did he think they were chains? Ropes of some kind, holding him in place while God-knew-what happened to him? I squatted in front of him.

"Monroe, wake up. You're dreaming; that's just blankets. It's all right; it's me, Nick, and you're safe now. Just you and me here, no one else."

I knew I was rambling but it seemed to have the desired effect; he looked over at me and some of the terror left his face. He stopped kicking and let me untangle him, though as I gestured for him to get comfortable again he grabbed my wrist.

"Stay? Your...your voice makes the nightmares....go away."

His voice was so timid, so small...like he was risking so much even by asking this of me. Very well, if I could chase away the shadows, even for a few hours, so be it. I sat down on the mattress and opened my arms to him. He hesitated only a moment before draping himself over me, burning cheek resting on my shoulder as I covered him up. As he slid back towards sleep I kept whispering things to him, about our mutual friends in Portland, about his work fixing clocks and all the good beer and coffee we'd shared, about how there was no one in all the world I trusted more than him.....anything and everything I could think of. Sure enough, my voice lulled him back into peace, and that was how Rosalee found us hours later, long after my leg had gone to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

To her credit, she reacted better than I'd thought. Apart from a moment's horrified woging she stayed her usual levelheaded self. She brought a large bag with her, full of all kinds of powders and pastes and canisters of dried herbs. There was even a mortar and pestle, and a strange glass device she called an anthanor. These she set up in the kitchen, going resolutely to work making healing salves for Monroe's wounds and mixing up another batch of that tea so he would stay asleep while she tended to them. 

We decided it was better that way; we weren't sure how he'd react to a new person suddenly being there. Of course that decision gwent right out the window when we gott back upstairs and found Monroe awake, sitting up and staring blankly at nothing. That empty gaze unnerved me; he might as well have been blind. He looked up with a start to the sound of his name--though again, he stopped just on the verge of woging. He stared intently at Rosalee; it was clear she seemed familiar to him but he couldn't quite place her, not yet. 

"You're...a fuchsbau. I know you, I think..."

She nodded, setting the salve down and displaying her palms to show she wasn't a threat. 

"That's right; my name is Rosalee. We're...we're friends; you've been to my spice shop before---"

He nodded suddenly, and a glimmer of the old Monroe stole back into his eyes.

"I thought...that was a dream. But you were...real? Really here....they didn't...hurt you--"

She went to sit beside him.

"I'm as real as you are, and no one hurt me. I'm just fine."

I could tell by the crack in her voice that she wanted to say, *And soon you will be too*, but of course it wasn't that simple. Nothing ever is.

His confidence in her restored, Monroe let her tend to him, barely even flinching as she applied the cream she made to the sores on his back and thighs and ankles. I could smell the stuff from across the room; a soothing heady lavender, naturally calming to one with frayed nerves. The burn she slathered with Vaseline and wrapped in clean guaze and tape. Her jaw tightened as she did this, and I could tell that it was all she can do not to shift in anger and try hunting down his captors. I knew the feeling, but now was not the time. 

Once every wound and bruise and scar was seen to, he took the tea more readily than before and lay back down. I sat with him a while, watching him sleep and dabbing sweat off his forehead, then it suddenly occurred to me that Rosalee was nowhere to be found. The soft gurgle of water boiling downstairs clued me in, though. Sure enough, she was back at the stove before a pot of water, chopping onions for soup and trying to convince herself that they were the cause of her tears.

"Are you all right?," I asked her, using what Juliette used to call my 'I-know-you're-not-so-don't-lie-to-me' voice. And she didn't--her brave facade crumpled as she leaned into me and let herself sob. All I could do is hold her while she rode the grief out. When at last she was steady enough to pull away, I gently tilted her chin up so she would look me in the eyes.

"We will find them. Okay? Once Monroe is well again and stable, I will use every resource of the Portland PD, and every faculty of my being as a Grimm, and together we will hunt down the people who did this and make them pay. We will. But for now our focus has to be on helping him."

"I know," she agreed, but her smile was still sad. I did wonder about the zaubertrank boiling in the anthanor, though--it was an acidic green color, and foamed with a strange caustic hiss. Whatever that was....someone was going to regret being on the receiving end of it.


	7. Chapter 7

I had to go back to work the next day but I couldn't focus at all; I barely got half my reports filled out because I was constantly checking my phone, prepared but dreading to see Rosalee's number pop up. 

It happened shortly before lunchtime; ducking out to take her call I heard the tears in her voice even before the words registered. When was I coming home? They needed me. 

"What happened?"

She explained that she was making something to clear up the infection in Monroe's lungs and he was sitting at the table watching her, when a barking dog outside startled him into jumping up--leaving behind a small pool of blood on the seat of the chair. The sight of it seemed to panic him completely and he was now cowering under my dining room table, whimpering in terror and still bleeding freely. He refused to come out, wouldn't speak apart from mumbling 'no' over and over again, didn't even seem to see her. Would I come talk to him, at least get him to let her look at whatever wound had reopened? 

I told the captain I was taking an early lunch and left without looking at any of my fellow officers. I could tell Hank knew something wass up but he also knew better than to ask me about it. At home I found the situation just as Rosalee described---Monroe was sitting huddled up under the table hugging his bent knees, somehow folded impossibly small as if he was hiding. From who or what, I could only imagine. 

"Monroe? Are you okay? It's me, Nick."

He looked up at me wild-eyed---but again, not woging--and shaking like a leaf.

"I didn't want to," he choked out, "they made me do it---if I wouldn't fight they said what else was I good for? Made me watch them kill...all those others. The ones I wouldn't fight..."

"Breathe, Monroe. Who did? Who made you fight?"

He drew a shuddering breath, and his eyes turned wet.

"The ones who....had me. It was like the Lowen games but...so much worse...They were schakelein and lebensaugeren mostly. We were being trained for something. We'd understand it later they said...they put us in cages--starved us to make us angry--the ones that lost, got chopped up and fed to us. I....I wouldn't fight, wouldn't eat, so they...got pissed. Thought I was just being arrogant. So *my* opponents...they got a bullet to the throat or a blackjack in the skull. I had to watch or they'd...burn me again. "

He swallowed repeatedly, and hard--forcing back bile?

"When that stopped working, they'd....they'd come into my cage, at night. Two of them would pin me down while the others...."

Here his words died away into sobs, but I could piece together what must have happened--why else would he be bleeding from *there*? A surge of very Grimm-like fury flashed through me---how satisfying it would be to turn the wrath of my ancestors on the ones who tormented and abused my best friend!

With a cautious touch I began to rub his uninjured shoulder supportively, relieved when he leaned into the touch. 

"I am so sorry that happened to you. None of that was your fault; it was wrong for them to do that. Just know that you're safe here---they can't hurt you anymore. We won't let them," I added, glancing at Rosalee, who nodded with a tight smile and added some red powder to the anthanor's boiling contents. 

Fittingly enough, it was now the color of blood.


	8. Chapter 8

It takes a while but we get him calmed down sufficently to crawl back out from under the table. The healing draft is ready by then; Rosalee's added some of that sleep-powder to it so he'll drift off and she can tend to this newly-discovered injury. She asks me to find her a sewing kit, and some bleach, her eyes hard and glistening. I know that look--she had that same expression when we told her Freddie was killed and she assumed I was the culprit. She's gathering her inner strength, steeling herself for what's bound to break her heart. 

I offer to do it for her--as a cop, and especially as a detective, I've seen some pretty terrible things and learned how more or less, to compartmentalize them. She insists she'd rather do it; she feels Monroe would prefer a lady's touch in this. I hadn't considered that. She grinds some herbs into a paste, says that will serve as antibiotic and painkiller while the wound heals. The needle she threads, dips in the bleach and then heats to glowing. Sterilizing it. A few drops of a cloyingly-scented oil on a scrap of silk, and then we're ready to begin. She has me kneel at Monroe's head, stroking his hair and putting the cloth to his face any time he seemed in danger of waking. Each time he takes a sniff of the oil, his face relaxes as he slides back intro deep sleep. Rosalee works away silently, her face white but her eyes dry. By the time she says she's finished there is blood on her hands, which shake horribly as she sets the needle aside.

"Cover him back up. He'll need to be...careful, for a few weeks--maybe even months--while the wound closes. Um...I'll show you how to make the kind of soft things he should eat; soups and maybe hot cereal. He...."

She can't keep going; she folds into me again. 

"Why would they do this to him?," she asks me as we finally seperate.

The only answer I can give her, is one Aunt Marie used to give me when we'd watch the news and I'd wonder aloud at all the tragedies and horrors of mankind.

"There is evil in the world. All any of us can do, is try to fight it where we can."

Cleaning up and tucking Monroe back in, we decide that at work I'm going to start looking up local counselors, specifically ones trained to deal with male survivors of assault. Rosalee remembers there being one in the same practice as her addiction-counselor; she used to pass that door on the way to his office.

"Supposedly he even does group sessions; he might feel braver if there were other people there too. Safety in numbers."

I tell her I'll check it out back at work, kiss them both on the head and then head back to try and face my partner and the captain.


End file.
